


works no longer in progress, 2013 ed.

by pnjunction (justjoy)



Series: {works no longer in progress} [1]
Category: Bleach, Doctor Who (2005), Hannibal (TV), Person of Interest (TV), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 11:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15509118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justjoy/pseuds/pnjunction
Summary: Random snippets and unfinished works circa 2013; see chapter titles for fandoms.





	1. welcome to night vale, pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this instalment – a whole bunch of would-have-been oneshots, with vague context notes provided before each section where available (read: where I actually remember them somewhat).

>   _(or: the one where carlos personally fights the public transport system)_  

 

“I don’t know who you are, or what you are doing to the riders, but I demand that you return the riders now.”

_We are many. You are one._ Another deer-masked figure joined the group. _You cannot harm us._

“Maybe not now. But you’re all connected to the subway, and this flask has enough paralytic agent to immobilise the whole system for at least a week. And I _will_ do this for as long as I need to. Trust me, you’d be surprised at what I can do given sufficient time and incentive.”

There’s a flicker in the eyeholes of the mask, and Carlos genuinely hopes that it’s fear, because if it isn’t, if this fails, if _he_ fails —

Well.

Carlos shoves those thoughts aside, quite firmly.

_You do not need to fight us,_ says the first figure.

_All the knowledge you seek_ , comes the whisper from another, soft and sibilant. _Anything you could ever want._

_We can show you… everything._

Knowledge, and isn’t that what Carlos has been seeking all his life, the same that led him here to Night Vale in the first place. Images flit through his mind — the Big Bang, from the beginning of the universe to its very end, and he can _be_ there for all of it, see with his own eyes what no other scientist ever will. And for a moment the infinite possibilities takes his breath away — everything that ever happened, everything that ever will.

So much beauty in the universe for his eyes alone — no, for him, and Cecil — _Cecil —_

The heady rush of images stops, and Carlos finds himself just barely upright, the small flask gripped so tightly in his right hand that it’s a miracle nothing has broken yet.

“No. You’re wrong,” he growls, breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon. “You don’t know what I want. You know nothing about me. I want Cecil back, and you _will_ give him to me now. Unharmed.”

[...]

“Carlos. I… did you get on the subway?”

Carlos shakes his head, studying Cecil’s face mutely. Cecil looks tired, more exhausted that Carlos has ever seen him, but he is unharmed, and that’s all that matters for now.

“That’s funny.” He tries for his usual lopsided grin and gets about halfway there. “I — I thought I saw you for a moment, right at the end.”

 

 

* * *

 

  

> _(or: the one where cecil leaves notes for carlos all the time, anatomically accurate heart emojis included... until they move in together, at least.)_

 

By this point, Carlos has been in Night Vale for long enough that his automatic reaction to anything unexpected is calculating assessment rather than surprise.

It is, of course, too far before caffeine o’clock in the morning to even figure out what time it supposedly is, much less to be calculating about anything at all, but his brain does manage an output of _nonlethal_ while he tries to coax the coffee machine into fulfilling its higher duties. The blasted device eventually does start working after it’s done being stubbornly sluggish (thankfully not in the literal sense today) so Carlos turns back to the card still sitting innocuously on his kitchen counter.

Intelligence freshly boosted by the promise of coffee — which is surprisingly good in Night Vale, even though Carlos has absolutely no idea where the stuff even _comes_ from around here — he studies it more closely, still the slightest bit wary.

(It occurs to him, in the mildly hysterical sort of way that has apparently become his subconscious coping mechanism, that a paper cut in Night Vale might be more dangerous than usual, especially given the rather disturbing tendency for varying degrees of sentience most objects seemed to possess. He files it away for later consideration.)

By the time he’s managed to wrest his mug from the reluctant machine, Carlos has noticed several things.

For starters, the card is a strange shade of something approaching white, although there’s a distinct tinge of purple in there if he holds it up to the light. The handwriting (slanted and spidery with large loops) isn’t immediately familiar, and Carlos can’t even identify what it was written with, especially given the City Council’s ban on writing utensils. Its dimensions are vaguely familiar, though, quite similar to index cards that a speaker might use — and that’s when it clicks.

_Cecil?_

Carlos takes a few fortifying gulps of coffee as he ponders this rather dubious inference, and eventually concludes that he should just stick to being a scientist.

He’s clearly not cut out for this detective sort of thing.

[...]

Really, Carlos shouldn’t have expected it to go on indefinitely, because the whole idea had been a silly one to start with and more so now that they lived under the same roof, and because both of them were busy people who ought to have better, more useful things to do with their time than pass notes like a bunch of nine-year-olds, and —

And okay, Carlos can’t help but admit that he misses it. A little.

Just a little.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> _(or: the one where carlos is Definitely Not A Botanist ~~and a pretty lacklustre gardener overall~~ )_

 

Carlos ignores it, at first.

Little point in getting attached to something that was probably going to die anyway, and he’d never been one for plants, not after he’d (accidentally!) killed half his mother’s garden by drowning.

(In his defence, it had been a complete accident - he’d just been trying to help out with the gardening, it wasn’t his fault that he’d been a little too overenthusiastic about it.)

But the tiny sprout of a plant persists, despite his utter negligence of it, and several quick questions to balaclava-clad shrubbery yields the correct concentration of acidified potassium permanganate to water it with.

[...]

Cecil’s eyes go wide and round. “You don’t know? Oh, Carlos, it’s a bloodstone plant!”

Carlos takes a whole minute to process this — it doesn’t go well. “It turns into bloodstone?”

“Oh no, of course not, my dear Carlos! I remember learning this in third grade Narrativistic Botany — it grew out of a crack in the first bloodstones our ancestors prayed with. The lesson was the importance of caring for your bloodstones.”

Well, Carlos had been expecting something along the lines of the tenacity of life even in the unlikeliest of places, which just goes to show how fundamentally different he still is from the people around him.

Then again, he supposes the continued existence of this little town is proof enough of that moral already.

 

 

* * *

  

 

> _(or: the one where carlos finds out that cecil is very not okay with blood while tending to his injuries, inspired by a wtnv headcanon post)_

 

"Why didn’t you tell me earlier?" Carlos said, quite narrowly stopping himself from screaming even though he definitely felt like it. "I know, you had to finish the broadcast, but - you could have texted me, at least, I know you’re capable of doing that, texting while you talk even though I have no idea how you pull it off. At least then I could’ve gone over before you dragged yourself all the way here and made your injuries worse in the process."

Cecil was looking at him, half-fondly, half-terrified of his answer. “Didn’t hurt. Still doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel pain, Carlos, remember?”

"That doesn’t mean - argh." Doesn’t mean you can’t die, Carlos had been about to say, except - no, he refused to say that aloud, even in the most hypothetical of cases.

[...]

"Cecil," Carlos said without quite realising it, and his hands almost stilled at the realisation as everything clicked together in place, except that he couldn’t so he forced them to continue moving, mechanical movements detached from sentiment as he was familiar with from his daily science. "Are you.. afraid of blood?"

Cecil was looking at his face - which, admittedly he usually did, but his gaze hadn’t even strayed to Carlos’ hands even once, and he’d go so far as to say that Cecil seemed to be actively avoiding to sight of his own wound.

"I - no - just, a little?" said Cecil, and his voice had turned slightly squeaky.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Now, the station has not received any official statement on this matter, as the offices of the City Council have apparently been vacated, and a new mayor has not been elected since Mayor Winchell stepped down, but rest assured that I will inform everyone [...]

— no.

No.

I am sorry, Night Vale, but I cannot do this any longer. I cannot in any good conscience continue to read the rest of what has been scrawled in rusty red over this paper.

It is with utmost sincerity, Night Vale, with the most genuine concern that I urge — no, I beg of you to run. Leave everything and flee.

If you can hear me, listeners, and I hope dearly that you still can, then run. Run, and never look back.

This is not surrender, Night Vale. This is not defeat. This is living to fight another day. And as you fall asleep tonight, may you find not sweet dreams, but dreams of tomorrow. A better tomorrow. A brighter tomorrow. A tomorrow that _is_ , in all the glory of uncertainty and potential.

Perhaps, if the mysterious lights shine right upon us, we will meet again one day, even though we may never know it, never recognise the other for who we are. Perhaps we will not.

I do not know what the future holds, and I have never felt greater need for such foreknowledge than in this very moment, nor have I ever been more uncertain of a future beyond this very moment.

Stay safe.

And — for what may well be the last time, my beloved Night Vale, over the rising ancient anger of Station Management, I bid you good night, my beloved Night Vale.

Good night.

 

 

 


	2. welcome to night vale, pt. 1

“You’re the only thing that matters,” Carlos says, then frowns. “Well, that’s not strictly accurate. Science also matters to me, and whether Pluto will ever be declared a planet again. Whether Pluto is even a thing, actually, because — okay, not the point, sorry.”

Cecil feels himself smiling, because he’d almost forgotten how adorable Carlos’ ramblings were in person (for a given definition of “in person”), not to mention the heroic effort of getting back on track had wrinkled his boyfriend’s nose in an extremely adorable manner.

“What I mean is that you’re the one I care the most about, and I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression otherwise. You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met, okay?” Carlos pauses. “Scientifically and non-scientifically.”

The ensuing silence is disrupted by not-so-distant squeeing from balaclava-clad shrubbery.

“Shh,” Cecil and Carlos say simultaneously.

“Sorry,” the leaves answer in a slightly embarrassed fashion. “Carry on.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Who’s there?” he shouts — except it comes out in a whisper.

_Carlos,_ he hears on the very edge of hearing, like something glimpsed out of the corner of one eye, grasping yet never quite managing to hold on — and yes, that is his name, isn’t it.

Carlos.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” he asks, and he can hear his voice getting louder, gaining strength with every word. That’s a good thing. Perhaps.

_Remember,_ the wind merely whispers in response, echoes that chase each other round and round. Carlos turns constantly, but there is no way to tell which direction the sound is coming from, let alone who the speaker is. (If it is indeed a speaker. Carlos can’t be sure, but he thinks he hears multiple voices blended into one.)

He remembers a name of — a place? Probably, it does not sound like it can be the name of anything else, although Carlos remembers nothing else beyond that, not a single memory or fleeting image that he can attach to those empty words. The void.

“Night Vale?”

There is something like a laugh carried past him by the wind, which whispers _my beautiful, perfect Carlos._

And then there is no more.

 

 

* * *

 

  

> _(or: the one about how carlos became a scientist, and how he ended up in night vale – and, of course, about cecil)_

 

There is Night Vale, and there is Cecil.

The residents of Night Vale have their own oddities, just like the residents of any other small town; perhaps that was why Cecil stood out, why he was so different — because he was so normal, so average, except in all the ways he wasn’t.

Some days, Carlos forgets why he’s still here in Night Vale, still in this impossible town of impossibilities. (Actually, he’s never quite sure why. Most days, though, he’s just too busy with fighting for his life or whatever to remember.)

[...] 

Carlos had decided, right then and there, that he wanted to be every kind of scientist.

Science had lost none of its allure over the years, not since Carlos had gotten his hands on his first ever encyclopaedia and started this long love-hate affair with science so many years ago. (Perhaps even earlier, actually.) He had lost none of his appreciation for the cold hard facts of logic and reality, from exacting measurements to elegant theories.

But for a while, science had lost that wonder that’d first drawn him to it inescapably like matter to a black hole.

Until Night Vale, which had taught him how to look at the world with wide-eyed wonder again, reminded him that he didn’t know everything about the world and hadn’t even discovered anything yet.

Carlos couldn’t deny the resentment in that thought, the burn of hate and anger that still stung after so many years - the fact that the outside world had cut him off so quickly and completely that he’d had no choice but to run, right into the dead end corridor of Night Vale. (Well, what he’d thought was a dead end corridor. Probably more like a corridor of funhouse mirrors.)

But, crazy as it might seem, he is content here, and that is all that matters. For now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Cecil,” he hisses, low and urgent, moving automatically to shield the broadcaster. “Are you alright?”

“I’m — ah, I’m fine. Just might need to have a few words with the NRA when we get back.”

“Carlos,” Cecil says, and there are too many meanings in there, too many inflections and nuances that he cannot deal with now if they want to survive this night.

“Don’t be an idiot, Cecil. You need to get back before _they_ find out you’re gone. I’ll be fine. Kevin here isn’t about to hurt me. Are you, Kevin?”

“Getting a bit cocky now, are we, scientist?”

“Does he look like me, then?”

“You always knew me so well.” Kevin sighs. “I guess you got everything figured out already.”

 

 

* * *

 

  

> _(or: on steve carlsbu- sorry, steve carlsberg, before backstory happened)_

 

Cecil, as usual, somehow realises that he’s back before Carlos has even gone two steps beyond the door.  

“Carlos! You’re back!” He bounds up with his usual boundless reserves of energy, grinning as he reaches out to take Carlos’ bag — although he does set it down with relative care when Carlos raises an eyebrow wordlessly. "Come on, there's somebody I want you to meet."  

It's not the first time that Cecil has had houseguests, although it's admittedly quite the rare occurrence - this is probably the third time in as many months since Carlos has moved in. (Fourth, if you counted the time one of Khoshekh's kittens had managed to dig his claws deep enough into Cecil's sweater to follow him home. The cleanup job for that one had been rather messy, what with all the blood and fur, not to mention the miniature catastrophe that had persisted at the station until Carlos remembered to go reassure Khoshekh that the kitten was with Cecil. Needless to say, the ball of fluff had maintained a constant buzz of happiness at Cecil's side throughout the whole mess.) 

Carlos doesn't mind at all, not usually; the residents of Night Vale hadn't ceased to be interesting even after all this time, and Cecil always did all the talking anyway. But he really wasn't in any form to be entertaining any houseguests today, having spent the last five full hours arguing with the Secret Police that his iPad stylus wasn't a writing utensil while half his experiments tried their very best to explode or otherwise spontaneously combust. (The other half had just been false alarms.)

"Carlos, meet Steve. Steve - yeah, this is Carlos," Cecil says, his tone suddenly turning flustered as he tugs Carlos over to sit on their usual couch.

"Hi, I don't think we've met yet?" The man sitting quite comfortably in one of the armchairs doesn't look even the least bit familiar, which is genuinely surprising. Carlos doesn't think that there's anyone in Night Vale who he hasn't seen at least once or twice around town, usually in Big Rico's, and he does have quite the good memory. 

"Yeah, I don't think we have," Carlos answers, still trying to remember if he'd seen Steve anywhere around town before. Then the name registers. "Wait - Steve? As in, Steve Carlsburg?" 

"No, Steve, as in Steve Carlsberg. With an e," says Steve - Carlsberg, Carlos' mind adds belatedly and insistently, as if still unsure what to do with this new information. "You look surprised." 

"Yeah, well - I thought you - and Cecil..." Carlos is beginning to feel that sense of being lost again, which he hasn't felt this whole day, so it's probably due. This being Night Vale and all. "I was under the impression that you didn't get along...?" 

Steve - Carlsberg - laughs at that, directing a mock-accusatory glare at Cecil. "Is that what Cecil has been saying on that show of his again, then? I thought we'd gotten over that a while back." 

"What can I say? Things were getting so boring until Carlos here showed up," Cecil says with a completely genuine childish pout. "It wasn't like you were around to protest anyway!" 

Carlos stares open-mouthed at Cecil. "And you didn't tell me anything about this?" 

"Ah, um, it never came up in conversation? Anyway, I left a couple slices of Big Rico's in the oven for you, I'll just go and warm them up now, okay?" 

Steve is still chuckling when Carlos turns back to him. "It's quite good to meet you at last, Carlos. Cecil's been telling me all about his scientist for literal ages." 

"Well, clearly he hasn't bothered telling me about you," Carlos retorts snappishly before abruptly realising what he's saying. "Sorry, shouldn't have said that. Bad day. So how long have you known Cecil?" he asks, for lack of a better question. 

"Long enough. My family moved into town when I was a kid - we were the last outsiders to really settle here in the long-term until you came into town." 

"That explains why you're so..." Carlos trails off, unwilling to concede the fact that he'd just thought normal in his head, and trying to figure out when normalcy - real-world normalcy, not the Night Vale variety - had started to become a quality worth pointing out. 

"Normal?" Steve finishes anyway, and grins when Carlos nods sheepishly. "Relatively speaking - I get what you mean. I'm the Council's unofficial liaison with the rest of the world, so I've managed to evade any modifications, mandatory or otherwise. Mind you, remembering what normal is can be quite the chore around here."

“Tell me about it,” he mutters, half-sarcastic but entirely sincere nonetheless.

[...] 

"About you and Cecil..." 

Carlos can't help it - he tenses just a little, even though he manages to keep most of the defensiveness out of his tone when he responds. "Yeah, what about us?" 

Steve merely grins, and holds out his hand. "Congratulations. He's a really great guy." 

Carlos blinks in surprise, then returns the smile, shaking Steve's hand. He hasn't really thought about it before - the daily goings-on of Night Vale means that there is little room left for prejudices and the like - but seeing how normal Steve was had temporarily rekindled his wariness. "Thanks. I know that." 

Steve's grip on his hand tightens before Carlos can withdraw it. "And I don't suppose I need to give you the speech about what happens if you hurt him?" 

"No, thanks. You can save that one, I got as much from the rest of the town already," Carlos says with a wince, repressing a shudder at the recollection of the memo he'd gotten from the Sheriff's Secret Police on that account - it had been rather ghastly and explicit about the consequences, even by their standards.

"Guessed as much," Steve returns with a knowing light in his eye as he lets go of Carlos' hand. "And this is probably a little late, but welcome to Night Vale."

 

 

 


	3. person of interest

Shaw doesn’t have _friends_ , not really.

Actually, screw that. Shaw doesn’t have friends. Period.

Sure, she’s had her fair share of acquaintances, people ranked on a list from targets to contacts to partners but -

Mind you, she’s not saying Reese and Finch are her friends or anything, because that would be ridiculous, and utterly, completely stupid, but still…

Still, she finds herself cataloguing them, beyond the usual threats-and-weaknesses assessment to their actual state of well-being (at least physically, trusted partners or not Shaw really can’t bring herself to be arsed over their mental states - which given the work they do on a daily basis for various sentimental and _incredibly stupid_ reasons, is obviously questionable to start with anyway).

Which is why she notices when Reese’s steps on the stairs are just the slightest bit _off_ , prompting a quick recall of how yesterday’s number had gone down, and - yes, he appeared now with a faint limp. Not enough to critically impair him in a fight, of course, but then again very little could do that.

She grabs a donut and her coffee when Reese walks by her, and a part of her wonders absently how these two haven’t keeled over from a heart attack yet from the daily pastry consumption while the rest waits to see what will happen.

The limp is subtle, so much so that Shaw actually wonders for a moment whether Finch will even notice, given how he’s barely looked up from the keyboard for five minutes total since she got here this morning - but no, there he is, slanting almost-worried glances at Reese every thirty seconds when he thinks no one’s looking.

Right, of course. Big Brother is totally his thing, and besides, this is Reese, Shaw doubts he could so much move a finger without Finch knowing five seconds beforehand.

[...]

“If you would be so kind, Ms Shaw,” Finch says finally, and honestly, would it kill the man to use fewer words every now and then?

“Bear, hier,” she says, and the dog obeys readily enough. “Come on, let’s give Mom and Dad some alone time,” she adds, because she feels like it, and it really wouldn’t do for her reputation to be tarnished.

She walks out the door without looking back, making a note to check her coffee for poison tomorrow - you know, just in case Reese decided to take revenge for that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He’d suspected, at first, that Finch might have been faking the injury - perhaps his illustrious career with the CIA had left him just slightly paranoid, but a stiff neck and uneven gait weren’t exactly the hardest to fake, especially given how rarely he saw Finch in person. And there were plenty of reasons for it, too, though most of it would only apply if Finch were as paranoid as John himself was (which he’d seen more than sufficient evidence to think was true). Perhaps Finch was trying to get John to underestimate him and lower his guard. He’d done it once or twice himself - Kara played the part most of the time since his build didn’t really lend to sympathy even when injured, but throw in war veteran status and he could get along just fine.

Then there’d been a string of miserably rainy days, when the cold damp had served to deeper engrave the ever-present lines of pain.

Either Finch was the most talented and dedicated method actor the world had ever seen, or whatever injuries he’d suffered were definitely genuine.

 

 

* * *

 

 

If nothing else, Carter thought, Burdett - or whatever his name actually was - could certainly talk anyone to death.

“I cannot say I entirely understand your position, Detective, only that I do not envy it. You and I are… very different people. The only certainty is that Mr Reese holds you in the highest regard, and I am inclined to agree with that assessment. I realise that I am in no position to make any further requests of you, Detective, but - ”

Here the steady voice stumbles, and it’s only in the pause that Carter realises how rehearsed the earlier speech had sounded. Planned, even. Probably was, actually, judging by what she’d learned about the guy.

Her phone beeps, a phone number appearing on the screen.

“This number should reach Mr Reese until the next time he manages to destroy his phone,” continues Not-Burdett, a distinct edge of peevishness in the last words.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> _(or: the one where finch_ is _the machine)_

 

“I don’t think you would believe it.”

“Try me.”

“That wasn’t meant as a challenge, Mr Reese. It was actually rather literal. I think you will find that I am not often given to hyperbole.”

His yet-unnamed benefactor turned to face him, a stiff upper-body movement that was almost robotic in nature - _probable spinal injury, severe_ added itself to the growing mental catalogue. “Most people know me as the Machine.”

Reese wasn’t quite sure _how_ , but he could quite literally hear the capitalised M in the words - he wondered whose emphasis that was.

“No wonder,” Reese mutters half-under his breath, although from the withering look he was receiving in response it had clearly not gone unnoticed - he tacked on _long enough ago to have acclimatised to physical limitations_ , followed by _extremely sharp hearing, no sense of humour._ “What do I call you, then?”

“Irrelevant detail, Mr Reese,” came the flat retort, accompanied by a glance which said _I highly doubt my answer would affect what you actually call me, anyway_.

He was correct in that.

 

 

 


	4. discworld/doctor who

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (or: the one where the time lords have lifetimers?? idk)

“I wanted you to see this.”

Susan studies the shelves that run the length of the room, the far end almost vanishing from sight. The lifetimers here are stately affairs with the distinct gleam of precious metal, but they are _wrong_ too.

Suspended in time, she thinks suddenly, and not at all like the ones of the Tooth Fairy and Soul Cake Duck. Sand hangs still in each, faded and grey - save one, where the last handful is just beginning its long descent.

The wood is a worn, deep grey in contrast to all its fellows that line the shelves, but if Susan tilts her head just right, it is blue, the bluest blue that she has ever seen.

She can see a set of letters, almost completely worn and invisible with age - at least, she supposes that that is what they are, even if the crisscrossing set of lines and curlicues are nothing like any language she’s ever seen before - but there is fresher set of etchings below that, and this she has no trouble reading at all.

“There was so much…” Death pauses. “So _much_ here,” he says finally, and she can’t help but understand.

They both stand, silent witnesses to the final grains trickling down, falling…

Then a golden light bursts into life, wreathing the lifetimer in a golden haze, and Death turns away.

“Come. I think you’d like to meet him.”

And Susan tears her gaze away from the golden haze now wreathing the hourglass, and knows that the word Death was searching for is _life_.

 

 

 


	5. hannibal, pt. 1

>   _(or: the one where beverly notices that will is losing time again)_

 

Beverly doesn’t know what it is that tips her off first. Perhaps there was something different that she’d noticed without realising, perhaps it was nothing specific at all.

“Jack, stop,” she says warningly, and when that doesn’t work she sets the evidence bags down and strides over to stand directly between Jack and Will Graham, and _glares_. “Shut up, Jack.”

And apparently, somehow, that actually works. Beverly hadn’t been expecting it to.

She turns around, scrutinising Will’s face for anything different, anything off, even though she cannot pinpoint anything else but the fact that she shouldn’t ever be able to study Will this carefully, shouldn’t be able to stand this close to him without him flinching away.

The thought turns over and over in her head like the worst kind of centrifuge.

“Will?” she says tentatively.

His gaze doesn’t fix on her, not exactly, more like a point that’s vaguely in a Beverly-sort-of direction. It isn’t that different from how he usually looks at people, of course – except it’s about a whole foot off, too far from her face, and those eyes are too vacant.

“What time is it, Will?” she asks gently, and when he doesn’t answer she takes out the watch stowed away safely in a pocket before she’d entered the crime scene. Crouching, she shows him the large face, ignoring the odd looks she’s getting from Price and Zeller and even Crawford himself.

 

* * *

 

> _(or: listen, will &bev friendship is a++ okay? okay.)_

 

“I don’t want to feel anything right now,” he blurted out.

Beverly had just managed to work through the ramifications of that statement when Will blanched, and it was a mark of how zonked out he was that he’d taken this long to realise what he’d actually said.

As if she couldn’t already tell from the bloodshot eyes and rumpled hair.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.” Beverly prides herself on her scientific objectivity, after all. “There’s a folding chair, and some spare blankets in the cupboard if you want them.”

Will dozes lightly - it’s broken intermittently by the brush of Beverly’s tools against fabric, of course, but still far more restful than anything he’s gotten at home.

 

* * *

  

It’s beautiful, in a distinctly horrific sort of way, how quickly and completely the human mind can turn on itself given enough reason, and Will’s certainly has reason aplenty.

Maybe that’s the reason why it all falls apart so quickly.

Or perhaps it’s just a delayed reaction to all the broken minds he walked himself into, trailing gore and bloody footprints all over, like the wet smudges of pawprints dotting his house every time it rains. Except that the dogs could always find their way back out again.

Now wouldn’t that be something - _sorry I can’t help you, Agent Crawford, but I seem to have caught a bad case of serial killer allergy_ \- and even through the cloying fog of the drugs Will can picture Jack’s reaction perfectly well.

Will thinks he might even be able to smile at that, but he is tired, so tired.

Will drifts.

He doesn’t know what time it is, doesn’t know where he is, but of one thing he’s very sure: his name is Will Graham. More than that, he _is_ Will Graham, and damned if he’s ever going to forget that again.

 

* * *

   

> _(or: alana and beverly, post-s1)_

 

Alana jumps a mile high when someone knocks on the door.

She turns to see Beverly looking mildly apologetic, hand still hovering mid-air. “Went out for coffee, and I thought you might like some… may I come in?”

“Sure. Sorry, I’ve just been a little jumpy lately.”

“It’s fine, so are we.”

“Been sleeping much lately?” Beverly takes a sip of her drink, and shrugs at Alana’s questioning glance. “You look tired, that’s all.”

Alana sighs and drops her gaze to the coffee cup cradled in her hands.

[...]

“I saw your face,” Alana says slowly, haltingly, unwilling to recall that day. “When you showed us Will’s - lures.”

Alana sees the wince on Beverly’s face, and wonders if it’s as difficult for her to remember that day.

“I -” Beverly looks away with a sigh. “I didn’t want to believe. Even when I found the evidence, I insisted that all the tests be rerun three times before I contacted Jack.”

That’s not all of it, Alana can tell. ”But…?”

“But - how can I not believe the evidence, Alana? That’s what I’m trained to do, to find the hard proof. To interpret the evidence,” she says with unusual venom that surprises Alana, although she doesn’t question it. “And you know what it says. I don’t want to do this any more than you do. But I can tell you that it doesn’t look good for Will at all.”

Alana has to bite her lower lip so that she doesn’t scream - she knows this whole mess isn’t Beverly’s fault, even though all this might be much easier if there was someone else to pin the blame on.

“This isn’t fair,” she says finally.

Beverly quirks an eyebrow. ”Tell me about it.”

 

* * *

 

> _(or: the one where bedelia visits will in prison)_

 

The gate closes behind her, a heavy, metallic clang.

Will Graham sits on his bed and does not react to the sharp click of her heels, does not acknowledge the muted thump of the chair as she sets it down in front of his cell.

His eyes are closed.

Bedelia listens to the echoes of her approach fade down the corridor, and does not guess at the picture behind those eyelids. She knows better than to try.

He is gaunt and unkempt, tired from something more than simple exhaustion — everything, she thinks with a slight shiver, that Hannibal is not, yet Will is so _enthralling_ to him.

And perhaps she can understand.

“Bedelia Du Maurier,” she starts as something of a peace offering after ten minutes of silence, because while they might all be masters at the waiting game that isn’t what she came here for today. “Hannibal’s psychiatrist.”

He opens his eyes, and they reflect nothing as they look at her. “You already know who I am.”

It isn’t a question.

If Bedelia ever wondered how much Will Graham understands of Hannibal Lecter, she has her answer now.

She may have had a glimpse under that impeccable person suit, but Will Graham has been in it — has _been_ it, even.

“Hannibal has spoken much of you in our sessions, although I cannot say more than that. Doctor-patient confidentiality, you understand.” _And I am beginning to see what he found so fascinating in you_ , she does not say.

If Will Graham hears the unspoken words, he does not show it.

“I understand how Doctor Lecter got his bedside manners, certainly,” he says in return, and it’s still surprising to hear the cadence of her own voice in there even though she already knows to expect it. “What I don’t understand is your reason for coming here.”

“I have good reason to be… shall I say, invested in your continued well-being. And rather much time on my hands.”

His tone is carefully neutral. “I don’t need another psychiatric witness.”

“My apologies. I have no intentions of replacing Doctor Bloom.” He tenses slightly at the mention of the name — defensive, most probably, with a hint of something else. Bedelia pretends not to notice. “I am merely here to talk. To understand, if you will.”

“Be my guest.” He has closed his eyes again, leaned back against the wall, but the feeling of being watched closely does not fade in the least; if anything, it intensifies a thousandfold. “Although I’d imagine that you would have heard most of it already.”

“To the contrary, there are many things that Hannibal is blind to.” She tilts her head, regarding him intently. “Tell me what I see.”

He doesn’t even move. Isn’t even surprised at her request.

“You don’t want me in your head,” he says with almost brutal honestly, and maybe that is why she gives the answer she does.

“I’ve had worse,” she answers carefully, and lets the name that she does not say speak for her.

There is just the slightest quirk of dark amusement in his expression. “I’d still rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

Bedelia can’t say that she’s not disappointed, but she understands.

She is Hannibal Lecter’s psychiatrist, after all.

 

* * *

 

> _(or: will and jack, post-s1)_

 

“I want Alana Bloom as my psychiatrist,” Will says right as Jack Crawford steps into his hospital room - or at least, the first time Will is conscious of him doing so. The drugs to induce sleep are still a fading haze in his system, but he’s never been clearer on what he wanted.

Jack’s expression doesn’t change, but Will can see the surprise beneath, because Will Graham has never _demanded_ anything of Jack Crawford before.

Well, he’s decided to start now.

“Doctor Lecter is still officially your psychiatrist, Will,” Jack says slowly, like he’s testing him. Maybe he thinks Will is sleeptalking now - which would be a refreshing change, Will must admit, since he’s usually the one convinced that he’s dreaming.

He shakes his head sharply, once, twice, taking an almost vindictive pleasure in the fact his head doesn’t feel like it’s splitting open at the very motion. “Not anymore.”

Will doesn’t explain further, doesn’t want to.

“Do you still believe you were framed? By Doctor Lecter?”

Jack’s words are careful, neutral, but Will can hear the disbelief beginning to colour his tone, and he does not care for it. Jack had sent him to yet another dark place, and this unwavering certainty of Hannibal Lecter’s guilt is what Will has returned with this time.

Will knows that he would probably have doubted himself not that long ago, but he’s just about done with Hannibal Lecter’s games, and most certainly through with being Jack Crawford’s… whatever he was. Pawn, secret weapon, fragile little teacup, whatever.

Will wants out, and he will have it.

He’s conscious of the fact that Alana is as much a way out as anything else, he is, and she deserves so much better, but he’s desperate.

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Jack. You can convince my mind that he isn’t framing me, but I don’t think my - what did you call it? - _paranoia_ will go away that easily. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any harm that might come to Hannibal Lecter should I have sessions with him. “

Will is careful with his words, oh yes he is, not _Agent Crawford_ or _Doctor Lecter,_ and he knows that Jack will have picked up on the fact that he hasn’t answered the question at all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> season 2?? what season 2


	6. hannibal, pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (or: the one where will is a dog?? that alana ends up rescuing and adopting from a crime scene?? don't ask me)

She doesn’t quite know what to expect when Jack Crawford steps into her office.

It’s not the first time she’s dealing with him, of course, although having him show up in person here is rather new, especially considering the fact that the psych evals for the newest batch of trainees aren’t due for another two months.

Alana Bloom is familiar enough with the trainees to know that many see the head of the Behavioural Science Unit as their idol, a pinnacle of achievement most of them can only ever hope to achieve. Most of what they’ve heard has undoubtedly been ridiculously exaggerated by the school grapevine - which does exist, even at Quantico.

But she also knows that they’re right, insofar as that Special Agent Crawford is quite unlikely to appear at your doorstep unless the sky was falling down and you had a way to stop it.

For a moment, Alana has to suppress the hysterical urge to ask if the sky has indeed fallen without her noticing, if only to see his reaction.

She quells the small chuckle that threatens to escape at the thought, and waits.

Jack places a thin stack of documents - casefile, she recognises by the trademark yellow manila - on her desk and doesn’t sit, paces up and down the length of the room restlessly. “We’re looking for a serial arsonist targeting families. I need your help, Doctor Bloom.”

At least he hadn’t phrased it as a direct order, Alana thinks as she resigns herself to the inevitable, although it makes little difference, really.

[...]

Alana opens the casefile after Jack leaves. She doesn’t flinch at the severely charred bodies in the first few photos, though it’s a close call - she’s far from a newbie to the FBI, but she still hasn’t quite figured out how everyone else manages to take all of it in stride.

She skims the next few pages of crime scene information quickly until she reaches the victim research. There’s the vaguest beginnings of a victim profile in there, but not enough to build anything useful yet.

Alana lets out a huff of frustration as she closes the casefile and places it aside, fitting in the new information with what little she has gleaned from her conversation with Jack. In the past week, the same accelerant had been identified in three incidents of suburban house fires, a unique mix far more effective than anything available on the market; the residents had likely been killed by smoke inhalation according to the ME’s preliminary examination.

Based on the existing pattern, they were expecting a fourth case this evening. Jack would send her the address once the fire brigade confirmed it.

Alana doesn’t know what he expects her to do there, actually, given that the house will likely be no more than a sodden, charred mess by the time the fire brigade is done with it. She agrees to go anyway; there’s no need to argue with Jack Crawford any more than necessary, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she found something useful when she is least expecting it.

She is startled out of her thoughts by her phone - a message from Jack, with the address.

Alana allows herself the space of two breaths to convince herself that she’s ready, and another one more wondering why she’s even doing this.

Then she stands, grabs her coat, and heads for her car.

 

* * *

 

Whatever she’d been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this.

Even at the distance she’s parked at, heat from the blaze hits her in the face once she steps out of the Prius - she grimaces, unwinding her scarf and dropping it on the passenger seat.

Coat draped over one arm, Alana makes her way over to where Beverly Katz is standing beside the car that she’d come in with Jimmy and Brian, trying her best not to breathe through her nose.

[...] 

She hasn’t had a dog since she was eight.

She shrugs off her coat and wraps it around the dog – _Will_ , says the collar hanging loosely around its neck – and boy with one hand, thumbs through her contact list with the other.

“Jack?” she half-yells into the phone as a sudden gust of wind sends her hair whipping into her face. “I found them!”

 

* * *

 

The wind is noticeably cooler by the time Alana steps back out of the ambulance, the sun having set about an hour ago. Suppressing a slight shiver, she grabs the scarf from the passenger seat of her car, winding it around her neck as she joins the small group surrounding Jack Crawford, who turns to look at her expectantly. “Well?”

Alana shrugs, the long day having worn through quite a bit of her professionalism. “These crimes are - well, not crimes of passion per se, but your arsonist obviously didn’t know much about the families beyond their security systems, otherwise the missing kid would’ve been noticed. Didn’t have much time to research them beforehand, maybe, or didn’t care to. Whatever connects these victims, it’s not tied directly to the families as a whole. Maybe a specific member of each family, or even something about the house.”

Alana sighs and rubs at her eyes. “I don’t know how much I can help you on this.”

She ignores Jack’s look of almost-disappointment, the long day making itself known on her nerves.

She listens with half an ear as Brian and Jimmy give their reports, Beverly apparently having finished hers already. Being a part-time lecturer at the FBI means that she actually does understand quite a good bit of what they’re saying, but not enough to hold her full interest, so she lets the crime scene jargon wash over her absently, most of her attention still on the half-charred wreck of a house - until Beverly asks about the dog.

Jack scowls, and if his frustration wasn’t already clear before it certainly is now.

It’s too late to take it to Animal Services, of course, and they still need to check for any trace evidence that could have gotten caught in its fur. Alana guesses from the minute crease in Beverly’s forehead that she would have wanted to take the dog home with her, except there’s no telling how long she’ll have to stay in the lab tonight, perhaps until tomorrow morning; Beverly Katz is nothing if not dedicated to her work, after all. Besides, if Alana remembers correctly, the agent lives in a rather modest flat, too small for a dog of this size.

Something brushes past her leg, and Alana looks down to meet Will’s gaze - such sad eyes, she thinks without quite meaning to.

Alana doesn’t even know what she’s doing when she steps forward and says, with a confidence she manages to dredge up from god-knows-where, that she’ll take him.

[...]

As it later turns out, the traces of fur left on the collar don’t match Will’s at all - the diameter and colour is all wrong when she looks at it through Beverly’s microscope. Of course.

But by that point, Alana’s far too used to the name to even consider changing it, and Will doesn’t seem to mind either, so the name sticks.

  

* * *

 

They’re driving back to her house when Will starts whining and pawing at the door.

Alana eyes him worriedly; she’s never heard him like that. “What is it, Will?”

He ignores her in favour of nudging the door handle of the passenger seat until Alana pulls over and opens the door. Will bounds out into the dense forest lining the road, and Alana panics for a moment before she hits the hazard lights and gets out of her car.

She isn’t particularly worried - Will’s internal GPS has never failed to find her thus far - but she _is_ curious, very much so.

She flicks the flashlight on and listens: the click of the hazard lights, the hum of the Prius a soft undercurrent in the quiet night as she calls out Will’s name once, twice.

It’s several minutes later that she hears the sound of padded feet approaching through the grass, except that it’s almost echoing oddly, as if -

Ah. Of course. Because it's  _two_ sets of paws, not one.

[...]

Then the dog looks up at her, long fur matted in places from dirt, and Alana’s heart melts at the sight.

 _What am I supposed to do now, then?_ Alana asks herself as her outstretched hand is given a cautious sniff.

Will lets out that curious whine again, looking right at her, and suddenly Alana becomes quite aware of what he expects her to do.

“You can’t be serious,” Alana says out loud, and she can’t decide if she’s talking to Will, or about the fact that she’s even talking to him at all.

Will just continues to look at her meaningfully.

(Well, at least he has the decency not to talk back, Alana thinks, only a little hysterically.)

Finally, inevitably, she relents, grabs an old beach mat from the boot and lays in out on the back seat. The new addition jumps in without further prompting, and Will’s fur is a warm brush against her leg as he gets in too.

Alana gives him a distinctly unimpressed look as she gets into the car and starts up the engine, but she drives them home anyway.

(She has no idea what possessed her to name the dog _Winston_ , for goodness’ sakes, but at least it’s easy to remember.)

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long before everyone somehow knows about her strays, of course, but Alana finds that she can’t quite bring herself to mind.

Her main problem is figuring out what to do with all seven dogs in her house. Between her practice and work with the FBI, she doesn’t exactly have much time to spare for them, and Alana can’t help but feel guilty about it.

 

* * *

  

They drop by her house on a trip out from the psychiatric hospital, and Abigail’s expression completely changes when Will runs up to the door at the sound of the car. “I didn’t know you kept a dog!” she exclaims in delight.

“Seven of them, actually,” Alana answers as Will obligingly lies down for a scratch behind the ears, and that’s when she gets an idea.

[...]

The Leeds family is surprised when she walks in with Will and Winston at her heels for their counseling session that afternoon - well, at least Charles and Valerie Leeds are surprised. Their two children mostly look like Christmas has come early.

It solves Alana’s problem quite neatly - the whole family needs to be present for family counseling, but it’s almost inevitable that their youngest children would get bored and begin to fuss. Winston eagerly chases a ball around the room while the children watch just as eagerly from Valerie’s lap, so Alana gets to have a quiet talk with the parents without the child interrupting while Will stays beside her chair, his head tilted so it looks like he’s listening to the conversation as well.

“You have very well-trained dogs, Doctor Bloom,” Valerie says when she’s seeing them out. “Especially the darker one - it’s like he can understand what we’re saying.”

Alana looks down at Will and shakes her head with a smile. “Nah, that's all Will, he was already like that when I got him.”

 

* * *

  

“What - ” she begins to say, but doesn’t get a chance to finish when Will runs into her with enough force to knock her off balance, both of them landing on the floor of her study with a loud thump.

It takes Alana half a second to realise that the sound was accompanied by the distinct crack of a gunshot and the shattering of glass.

The draft of a winter night is already making itself known through the broken window when Alana realises one more thing: the unmistakeable warmth of blood pooling, spreading inexorably over her carpet.

Alana distantly registers the sound of running footsteps outside - probably her police escort giving chase to Gideon, but she’s far too concentrated on Will to care. The shard of glass is lodged in his hind leg, and Alana prays that her lack of knowledge about dog anatomy won't make her lose this as she grabs a first-aid kit to stop the bleeding.

She didn’t earn her medical degree in treating animals, but damn if she’s not going to try.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (don't worry, he gets better)


	7. doctor who, pt. 1

Rose allows herself one moment, one whole minute in which she collapses against the wall of the nearest alley and gasps for breath, every one a sob that catches and burns against the back of her throat.

One moment, exactly that and no more, trying to remember how to breathe, like she had once so long ago when she’d lost him.

Then she picks herself up and goes on, because that’s what she did the last time too, gone on. It had worked, too, because she was here now, wasn’t she? Except that she was late, too late to make a difference, _too late —_

Rose Tyler takes out her phone - the same one he’d configured for her, so long yet not long ago - and retrieves a number, the first of many she has to call.

The phone rings thrice before a half-remembered voice answers. “Hello?”

“Sarah Jane? It’s Rose Tyler, do you remember me?”

“Of course - “ the light-hearted reply is cut off, and Rose can tell with heart wrenching accuracy when Sarah Jane realises. “What’s wrong?”

She tries to keep her voice from trembling, because this is the first of many and she can’t afford to fail, but it is so _difficult._ “I need your help.”

“Anything you need. Has something happened?”

And Rose cannot help but let out a small sob, borne of desperation and sorrow and utter heartbreak, because saying it aloud would make it so much more real, and she doesn’t want this to be true.

But this is _him_ , and he’s always been more important than her life and her family and much less her cowardice, so she takes a large gulp of air and says it.

“The Doctor died, Sarah Jane. He’s _dead_.”

 

* * *

 

Martha looks bemusedly at her patient.

“That’s not your real name, is it?” Martha says, and only remembers to put in the question mark at the last minute so that it sounds like she’s just satisfying her own curiosity rather than stating a fact that she really ought not to know.

The patient smiles serenely up at her. “Which one? Jane, or Smith?”

_Smith_ , she almost says, because no one in real life is actually named Smith no matter what the movies say - but somehow, she doesn’t, because she can feel deep in her bones that it would be wrong.

“Jane,” she says instead, and could’ve sworn that her patient _winked_ at her before Mr Stoker shoos all of them away.

She is the last to leave, and feels inexplicably rewarded when her patient sticks out a hand to shake her own, with a businesslike briskness that spoke of confidence. “Good guess. The name’s Sarah Jane Smith. It was excellent meeting you, Miss Jones.”

[...]

“So no abdominal pains, I suppose?” Martha quips, and is answered with a grin and a nod. “Why are you here, then?”

“I’m an investigative reporter, Martha. It’s my job to be everywhere I don’t belong.” Sarah Jane pauses in her steps to glance out another window, seemingly unfazed by the frankly bizarre scene right outside. “Reminds me of a friend I once had. He went by John Smith, and no, that’s not his real name, before you ask.”

Martha hasn’t been in this profession for long, but she knows the expression of the bereaved when she sees it, and it is right there on Sarah Jane’s face now as she stands beside her, looking out onto the impossible.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, because she doesn’t know how else to answer. “Were you close?”

“I travelled with him. We were… companions of a sort, I suppose.” It’s as if Sarah Jane had been expecting Martha’s answer. Anyone else would’ve been staring askance at her already. “He would’ve liked you, I think.”

“Thank you,” she answers sincerely, and is still fighting the fact that she’s feeling an unwarranted, completely illogical stab of pride at this statement from a complete stranger about yet another complete stranger when the Sontarans come, and all hell breaks loose.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i..... don't actually remember what this one was supposed to be about at all)


	8. doctor who, pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (or: the one where river finds out about the library, but chooses to let it be anyway)

“Darillium.” River leans forward, urgency written on her face. “Why there? What is it about Darillium? Tell me, please.”

There it is again, the mental brush of the TARDIS against her mind. _I cannot tell you, child. I wish I could, but -_

She interrupts the TARDIS in her desperation. “But I need to know, please!”

 _Listen to me, child. I cannot_ tell _you. That is all._

There is a mild undercurrent of light amusement under the reproving tone, and River suddenly _hears_ what the TARDIS has been saying.

“All right then, you can’t tell me.” She settles herself down on the rarely-used chair, calling up her near-eidetic memory of what little the Silence had known of the Doctor’s exploits. It wasn’t much, honestly - vague descriptions here, a hidden clue there - but it would have to be enough.

This was going to take quite some time.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t, in the end, because - well. She has an instinct born of hearing stories, and if there was anything that River had learned to be true of their story no matter what, it was that the tale never ended in _happily ever after,_ not really.

Equipped with this - admittedly pessimistic but realistic - guess, she’d gone straight for the jackpot, so to speak.

After all, there was something tragically undeniable about dying for a Doctor who’d never even known her. He’d died at the hands of one who’d not known him, so she could die for him even if he had no idea who she was.

Simple guesswork, really, to sift through what little was known of the Tenth Doctor’s adventures and find the right one where someone had… died. It was one of the things you inevitably picked up when being crossed in time streams with a centuries old Time Lord, along with an unparalleled understanding of what it meant to live in every moment, as if it were your last.

She just hadn’t expected it to hurt so _much_.

There is something unbearably warm in mental hum of the TARDIS now, a hint of pride mixed in with a lot of sorrow.

 

* * *

 

“Our lives were always meant to be this way. I went to the Library and died for him, and there I shall stay.” River lays a hand on the console, feeling the resonant whirr under her fingers. “But thank you.”

The hum of the TARDIS in her mind lingers for a moment more before receding, and River wonders for a moment what she would be hearing instead if the TARDIS had a voice. 

 

 

 


	9. bleach

The grounds of the First Division are quiet when he finally returns, deserted save for the few shinigami on duty for night patrol; the rustle of his haori is a muted echo in the barracks as he steps into the office.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, he finds Nanao asleep at the desk.

Moonlight through the window glints off her glasses, lying atop the papers stacked methodically on the polished mahogany.

Shunsui picks up a lone piece of paper that has drifted to the ground not far from where he stands, already knowing what he will see — reports on each shinigami killed in the Wandereich’s invasion, written in Nanao’s familiar handwriting, ruthlessly neat even to the very last word.

Most of the fallen barely have any division left to speak of, let alone any kin to inform, even. Yet Nanao had still insisted on doing it anyway, starting with the Eighth and spreading out to the other divisions as horrifying reports of the full damage they’d suffered trickled in.

She doesn’t explain her reasons, but there is little need to.

He understands.

Because even if their deaths had been unnecessary, their lives hadn’t been, and they deserved to be remembered as more than a mere casualty. Another nameless, meaningless statistic of war.

At least the Eighth’s strength in both combative and defensive kidou had meant a lower body count than almost all the other divisions, although even that was little consolation for him or Nanao, not when the numbers were already in the three digits to begin with.

Shunsui steps closer to the desk, careful to be quiet so that he won’t wake her, although he still lets traces of his reiatsu seep through, enough for her to recognise his approach. It is dangerous at best and suicidal at worst to try sneaking up on anyone as powerful as they were, especially not with the war to set everyone on edge.

“Nanao-chan?” His voice is soft, far gentler than what most of Soul Society would have recognised or expected from him, save Juushiro and perhaps Lisa.

And Nanao herself, of course.

Nanao wakes slowly. It is a testament to how exhausted she is that she doesn’t do anything but blink blearily at him for a few seconds. “Taichou?”

“Who else?” he answers lightly, abruptly remembering the one time she’d called him _soutaichou_ after he’d been promoted. His only response had been to tell her that she was never, ever to do that again.

He studies her face, doesn’t miss the dark circles beneath her eyes. “You should get some sleep.”

“I’m not done yet.”

“Those reports will still be there in the morning. Can’t have my dear Nanao-chan being sleep-deprived, now can we?”

Nanao manages a small smile at his words, but the only thing Shunsui can see is how fragile the expression is.

She doesn’t protest when he walks around the desk and puts his arms around her.

Shunsui lays a soft kiss on the top of her head, just as he’d done when she was a child, and he feels her tremble in his arms, a soft sob for all that they had lost and all that they would still lose.

Once, and no more, because Nanao knows as well as he does that they cannot afford anything more, lest they forget how to carry on.

He doesn’t know if a few minutes have passed, perhaps hours or eons, but eventually he helps her stand. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your room.”

 

* * *

 

He is just about to stand and leave when he feels a brush against the back of his wrist, and when he looks down Nanao’s right hand is already curled around his left, tight enough that he will undoubtedly wake her if he pulls away.

_Well then. So be it._

“And don’t you dare accuse me of being lecherous in the morning,” he informs the sleeping form of his fukutaichou pointedly, even though he knows full well that she will do nothing of the sort come tomorrow, not now.

Shunsui takes the eyepatch off and leans back against the wall, cool air soothing to the scarred skin.

Soul Society may need a fearless leader, untouchable and unbreakable, but there is no need to hide here, not in the dark shadows of night.

He harbours no such illusions about himself.

 

* * *

  

It is perhaps few hours later when Nanao jerks awake behind him with a scream, small and stifled, but no less terrified.

Shunsui is only half-asleep, but the sound chases away any remaining haziness lingering in his mind.

Her gaze skitters frantically across his face, and he doesn’t even ask what it was that she saw in her dream, merely grips her hand in his own and doesn’t let go.

“Promise me you’ll survive, taichou. That you will come back,” she says, the words a low and desperate plea. “Promise me. Please.”

Shunsui sits quietly without answering, and remembers the burn of utter loss when he’d felt Yamamoto’s reiatsu flare one last time before disappearing forever, and he knows without asking that Juushiro had sensed it too.

He does not want Nanao to feel that, not now, not ever — but Shunsui is anything but foolish despite his usual demeanour, and if there is anything he may have forgotten about the nature of war, the past week has been a painful reminder.

War is transient, ever-changing. It heeds no man, no words. Nothing is sacred and no-one is safe.

_You know I can’t do that,_ he wants to say but cannot bring himself to. _I refuse to make a promise I can’t keep, especially if I never see you again._

But words are unnecessary, because the soft light in Nanao’s eye is one of understanding, because even she knows that she is asking for something he can’t give. Their relationship has been built on trust, and that is the one thing Shunsui will never falter from believing in.

Sometimes he forgets that Nanao was there when he lost Lisa — when _they_ lost Lisa, he corrects himself — too old a soul trapped in far too young a body, no less able to understand the unending pain of loss. Shunsui had sought refuge in the bottle and failed; she sought hers in him, and without quite realising it, he found peace with her as well. It went both ways, as many things did.

The only reason he’s been able to forget, Shunsui knows, is because she lets him.

Shunsui reaches out with a hand, and wipes the solitary tear that rolls down his fukutaichou’s cheek.

There are no words for this moment, and no need for them.

It is not fair that Shunsui has to leave the Division he led from the very beginning of the Gotei, and it is not fair that he has taken Nanao with him.

None of this is fair. None of this should even be happening, yet here they are.

He wonders if Nanao can see the age he feels, wearing down to the very bones of his soul. “I will go to Karakura tomorrow.”

Nanao’s mind is as quick as ever, despite her obvious exhaustion. “About Kurosaki?”

Shunsui nods. “His friends and family. I intend for them to visit him in Soul Society if such measures become necessary.”

It is not fair that so many shinigami have died and might still die over grudges that were formed long before they joined the Gotei, long before they had even reincarnated, in all likelihood. Shunsui knows that much.

But what is even worse is the fact that Kurosaki Ichigo is fighting for his powers right now so he can fight for them, for a place which will never officially recognise him as anything more than a substitute shinigami so long as he remains among the living. A fight that ends in total loss only to start afresh barely two years on, and Shunsui isn’t the only one who has seen the toll it has taken, the utter chaos left in its wake. That is perhaps the most bitter injustice of this war.

This is the least he can do.

 

 

 


End file.
